


Muddy Shoes

by Daisy_PoisonPen



Series: Glass House and Muddy Shoes [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, I’m not sorry, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Justice League (2017), but that's fine, i think this is porn, so many feelings, this is probs more feelings than porn, this started out as crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 17:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17564741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisy_PoisonPen/pseuds/Daisy_PoisonPen
Summary: Bruce is very turned on (read: emotionally conflicted) by a filthy Clark Kent doing farm boy things. Post-JL.





	Muddy Shoes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, i haven't done any *new* SuperBat content in quite a while. Special thanks to the folks over in the discord server that inspired me to write this. you thirsty hoes are the best.
> 
> Err... this probably involves very awkward cute gay sex. proceed with caution.

It turns out that buying a bank is kind of a pain in the ass.

Bruce transfers the HQ to Gotham and gets to work on getting a more competent CEO to run the thing so he won’t have to worry too much. He’s glad that the Kents’ accounts are settled now, though.

He sighs. Diana hung around for a while after defeating Steppenwolf in Russia, but both Cyborg and Aquaman took off fairly quickly. The kid, Flash, or Barry as he insisted on being called, hung around too, and Bruce eventually warmed up to him, although he can still only take the kid in small doses.

Clark has been gone a long time too. He’s been spending time with his mother in his hometown, reconnecting after such a horrible thing as dying would be. He finds himself wondering about Clark frequently, even more than the others. Maybe that is because of his own guilt, his part in Clark’s death. Maybe it’s because of his part in Clark’s reanimation.

Alfred, who usually figures out his moods, doesn’t say anything anymore when he sees Bruce staring at the Bat Computer in silence. He’s stopped saying something when Bruce zones out on boring patrols. He stops saying anything when Bruce uses more force than is really necessary on his more-interesting patrols.

Bruce finally gives up. “Alright, Alfred. Whatever you’re thinking, just--say it already!”

“Hmm,” is all Alfred offers.

“Alfred!”

“I just think that if you’re so worried about Mr. Kent, you should see for yourself that he is doing fine.”

Bruce can’t really argue with that. Still, between dealing with Joker and Harley Quinn and that damned bank, it takes more than a month before he can clear his schedule enough to leave Gotham.

Smallville is just that. A small, ridiculously picturesque sort of town, the kind that most people think of when they think of small towns in movies from the fifties. The sky seems to be just above his head and miles away at the same time, the clear blue and unpolluted air radically different than what he is used to. The people are friendly. The main road basically makes up the entire town, with the surrounding areas having very few residences; most of people that live in this town live in the vast farmlands that surround it.

Finding the Kent Farm is easy enough after having been here before. Martha Kent is the one that invites him in. “Oh, well, Mr. Wayne, I didn’t know Clark was expectin’ ya. Clark!”

Bruce hears the “Coming, Momma!” that he finds oddly adorable, from somewhere behind the house. Clark emerges from the side of the house, probably having exited the barn, and Bruce gapes.

“Oh--hi, Bruce! Didn’t know you were--is everything okay?” His smile is tense, and by the way Bruce sees his attention shift, he’s listening to things far, far away from this farm.

Bruce nods, his jaw still hanging open. All he can think is, _it’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair._

Clark’s smile relaxes once he confirms that nothing is wrong. Martha waves at him. “Well why don’tcha come inside, Bruce, and settle in.”

“I-I just…” he swallows, his throat dry.

“Actually, Ma, I’ll grab Bruce a drink. He’s got something he wants to ask me, clearly.”

“Alright, but go clean up! You’re filthy.”

“Yes, Momma.”

There’s a rush of wind, and by the time Bruce has stepped in the house, Clark’s hands are clean and he’s wearing a royal blue tee shirt. “Sorry,” he says, the icy color of his eyes accented sharply by his tee shirt and by the sheepish expression on his face.

He seems to be glowing, almost literally.

“I just… wanted to check on you. You know. In person. I… am sorry I kind of just came unannounced, I didn’t want to tell you I’d come and then have to cancel, and--”

“That’s okay. Hey, it’s really hot out there. How about a beer or something?”

“Don’t drink beer.”

“Soda?”

“Sparkling water?” Bruce asks sheepishly.

“Lemonade,” Clark says with a smile. “Ma made some last night.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Clark fills two tall glasses with ice, and Bruce finds himself staring again. Clark’s forearms are _strong._ His fingers move with the kind of delicate precision that Bruce has had to work his entire life to achieve and maintain. It makes his cottonmouth more pronounced, and he tugs at his collar a little bit.

Clark sets the glass down in front of him and sits at the kitchen table with an easy smile. “You came to check on me?”

“Uh, yeah. You… you know. It’s been a weird year.”

Clark laughs. “Yeah, that’s true. I mean… I was… I was dead not too long ago.”

Bruce frowns, his guilt turning his lemonade sour. “Is that… how are you with that?”

Clark shrugs. “I’m trying not to pay it too much mind. I don’t know. I can’t change it any. I wish I could, for Ma’s sake. She still… has difficulty. Lex Luthor…” Clark cuts off, his jaw clenching tightly. “I will never forgive that man for what he did to my mother.”

Bruce nods, his own shoulders tense. “I… have an update about that, by the way.”

Clark’s shoulders tense too, now. “I know. I can hear him sometimes. It’s never long enough to track him. I… am not ready to go back to being Superman all the time and actively search for him.”

“I understand,” Bruce says kindly. “In the meantime, if you want security for Mrs. Kent, I’m happy to arrange something. I wouldn’t want there to be some kind of retaliation or anything. And, whatever makes her feel safer.”

Clark’s tension eases. Bruce almost hates how easy and open his expressions of emotion are. “Thank you, Bruce, really. But you’ve… you’ve done so much already.”

“It would be literally nothing.”

Clark’s eyes have a section that is brown, he realizes. Right there, in the top corner of that one eye… heterochromia. God, _it’s not fair._

“What about Lois is she…?”

“She’s fine. She… returned to Metropolis a few months back.” Clark doesn’t seem as sad about this as he should.

“Are you okay?” he asks anyway.

“Sure. More than anything, I want Lois to be happy. She’s happiest in the city, traveling around, doing what she was born for. I’m happiest here, getting the farm up and running again, getting it profitable again.” He gives a sad smile. “I guess it was never meant to be.”

“I’m sorry.”

Clark shrugs again. “Maybe I’ll be back in the city again, who knows? Maybe I’m meant to be somewhere else.” He meets Bruce’s eyes then, the intensity of his gaze rooting Bruce to his seat. “I’ll only go where I can help. And I’ll only go when I’m needed.”

* * *

 

Bruce can’t sleep. He keeps thinking about what Clark is like, why he felt such a strange, visceral reaction to seeing him.

The bed is actually in Clark’s old bedroom, still decorated with trophies from elementary science fairs, baseball team victories, or peewee football awards. His ceiling is decorated with a large model of the solar system, complete with glow-in-the-dark stars. His desk still features high school literature books, and books he still reads, judging by the worn covers: lots by Plato, mainly, but also other Greek philosophers like Socrates, and other philosophy titles like Crime and Punishment and books by Nietzsche and Immanuel Kant.

His walls are covered in basic teenager posters, and his floor still has one of those town and roads rugs that little kids use to play with their Hotwheels cars. Bruce spends some time browsing the room, learning what he can about Clark’s childhood. He spies a picture on the desk, too, one of himself with his father. The man was tall, rustic, strong. He was leaning on a tractor of some sort, while Clark sat on its wheel, both grinning brightly at each other.

Clark had an average childhood. He was just a kid, growing into just a teenaged boy, growing into just a guy. Everything about him is so average, an effort to hide how extraordinary he is.

Or maybe… maybe he just likes having an average life. Maybe he likes the sweaty, shirtless days, the grimy hands and muddy shoes like his father had. Maybe he enjoys having to run this farm, having to work on things with his own hands. Maybe he loves the way soil sifts through his fingers as much as he loves the air flowing through his hair as he flies.

Times like this, Clark seems completely inaccessible, like Bruce might never truly know him. Not that he thinks he deserves to, but sometimes…

Well, sometimes Bruce wishes that Clark knew him, too.

* * *

 

Bruce doesn’t see Clark at all in the morning. Mrs. Kent makes a full breakfast for him, and he finds himself stuffed full and his eyes slipping closed, so he naps for a while before taking it upon himself to find Clark.

The field is getting taller than he is now as summer starts to fuel the growth of the corn and wheat fields that surround the Kent home. He knows from dealing with the Kents’ titles and land deeds with the bank that the entire farm is around three hundred acres. It sounds like a lot, but it’s less than half a square mile around. Still, the farm has been successful for generations, only finally falling on hard times with the premature death of Jonathan Kent. He’s glad that they owe nothing on it now. It will be easier to make this farm turn a profit again without having to pay mortgages and the like.

He strides away from the fields and toward the barn, cutting under a shade tree and down a short path. When he enters the barn, he knows Clark is there right away. He can hear the shifting of something--chains, maybe? And something that sounds very heavy being put down. There’s a sigh of frustration, and then the clang of tools landing in their space in a tool box.

“Need some help?”

Clark gives a rueful smile. “I’d appreciate it.”

Bruce tries to ignore everything and focus on his task. He grabs the wrench, the bolts, the rag. Carefully screws the bolt in, tightening it with the wrench. He doesn’t move his eyes to the right, because then Clark will be there, wearing nothing but a sweaty beater, holding up an entire damn tractor for him to work under. He’ll be right there, too close, his arm muscles flexing as they adjust to Bruce’s needs, his fingers and fingernails getting grimy from holding on to the dirty undercarriage of the machine.

Bruce won’t look down either. He won’t because Clark’s work boots will be in his periphery, laces untied and almost black from being old, dust and mud on them and in between their treads from working the farmland. His jeans will be there too, all ripped and covered in patches of mud, but the Levi’s stamp still clean and bright on his pocket. He swallows. Turns the wrench some more.

No, he won’t look. It will drive him absolutely crazy.

“Bruce?”

He hadn’t counted on having to hear him. What the fuck kind of backup plan could he possibly have for this? “W-what?”

“Are you okay? I know it’s hot out here but… you’re just suddenly sweating and and your pulse is thrumming... we can take a break if you need to cool off.”

Bruce _growls._ “I don’t need a break.”

“I-I… oh.”

Bruce tosses the wrench back in the tool box. Turns to Clark. _And looks._ He gives away his sanity completely. He watches Clark’s sweat drip down past his collar bone, onto his beater. He catalogues every place where the fabric clings to his etched-in-stone abdominals. He gives himself time to look at the seams and the rips in his jeans, the spots of dirt. He watches as Clark’s back muscles move as he sets the tractor down, and he catalogues every detail of the confused expression in his eyes, the frown pulling on his eyebrows and his cherry-red lips.

An average farmer, just working on his machine. Flannel shirt tossed over one shoulder. Jeans just so on his hips. Muscles in places most humans don’t even have places.

Filthy, that’s what Martha had said. He’s fucking filthy. A filthy work of pornographic art.

Clark opens his mouth to ask again, but Bruce places a finger over it, tracing it over his lips (they’re as soft as they look) and down his neck. He wants to _taste._ Intellectually, Bruce knows that it is probably fucking disgusting, but he wants to lick right over the path his finger just made, taste the sweat mingling with dust there. He wants to quench his thirst on it.

“Bruce?” Clark asks again. He holds still, letting Bruce examine him.

“Your shoes,” he finally says, his voice hoarse. “They’re untied… the laces drag through the dirt. They’re muddy.” Bruce stops his wrist as Clark bends down to tie them. He holds up one strong hand in front of his face, examining. “You… have been working on this truck for a while. Why?”

“I… need it for harvest later. It’s part of the combine we use.”

“Hmm.” Bruce peruses Clark’s hands. No calluses, like there would be on a human, but grime… grime and dirt. He imagines it streaking the skin on his back while Clark pants his name. The image makes his stomach and his knees quiver, a little.

Clark takes his hand back, sheepish. “I… suppose I’m not as manicured here as I am in the city.”

“No one said that was a bad thing,” Bruce whispers. He steps forward, right into Clark’s personal space. Clark holds his breath now, watching him. Bruce watches too, mostly for signs that Clark would be okay with this. He watches Clark’s breath hitch and then stop. He watches Clark’s eyes darken as his pupils widen. He watches Clark’s hands angle towards him.

And he snaps.

Clark gasps when their lips collide. Bruce likes how prettily he moans when their bodies press together, how Clark’s unyielding body yields to him. If he needed proof that Clark could want this, he has it now. Clark could break him into pieces if he wanted. But instead, he yields.

Is that why he lets his shoes get muddy? He could fly over all the dirt, never get a speck of it on him. but he lets his treads fill with each, average step, lets his laces drag. Like a normal person would. Maybe he just wants to be normal, even though he isn’t.

Bruce wants to peel all of this away and see if the normal is just a carefully detailed facade, or if it’s ingrained in his being. He doesn’t know if tasting the salt on his skin will reveal if Clark really is the salt of the earth, but he wants to try anyway. So he tastes. He attaches his lips to the liquid trails on Clark’s neck, explores all the way down to his collar. he pulls the damp beater out of the way and continues his investigation. He lets Clark’s grimy fingers pull through his hair and rip his tee shirt away (he literally ripped it! tore the thing in half like toilet paper) and he gets his wish then because Clark’s fingers leave little smudges of black on his chest and stomach. The sight is so erotic that Bruce feels like he might explode, or go blind, or actually sprout bat wings and fly away.

Clark tries to wipe them away, his expression something between embarrassed and sad. “I’m sorry,” he whispers as he tries to wipe the smudges away. They only get smeared with more black. “Maybe I should clean up or—”

“No.” Bruce’s voice has dropped so low, he’s fairly certain he can use his own voice as Batman and not give away his identity.

Bruce takes his lips again, slowly, gently. The answer comes so naturally, he doesn’t think. “I want you like this,” he says against those soft lips. “I want you how you are.”

Bruce’s acceptance gives them both pause. For his part, Bruce just thinks it doesn't matter anymore whether or not Clark’s normal farmboy routine is a facade or part of who he is. He figures he already knows the secret of who is as Superman, the same way Clark knows that he is Batman. They’ll just have to learn to get around which parts of themselves are true, and which are just masks. He finds himself looking forward to revealing it.

Clark stares at him as though he’s never heard something like this before. “You… you do?” he whispers.

Bruce smiles, traces his cheek with his hand. Pulls Clark’s body against his, feeling him yield _again._ “Every bit,” Bruce says to him. “Right down to your muddy shoes.”

Clark huffs a bit of laughter, leaning into the embrace. They hold each other for a long time before they kiss again. Now their kisses are leisurely, exploring and curious. The heat that stretches between them has nothing to do with the summer sun. Clark picks him up like he weighs nothing, flies up to the rafters and then over a railing. The space is clearly Clark’s space, even his real bedroom, more than the one in his childhood home.

They land on a bed, a simple but comfortable futon—Bruce realizes that in the morning, the sun shines directly onto the bed through the window. He imagines Clark’s skin in the morning light, and it makes his mouth water.

They dispose of their pants quickly; Bruce revels in peeling Clark out of his dirty jeans, and Clark amuses himself with lowering the fly of Bruce’s shorts with his teeth. Bruce keeps his fingers in Clark’s hair (it’s soft just like his lips) and drags him up the second he’s shucked them off, taking his lips again and again, until Clark is laughing because Bruce can’t breathe but refuses to let go of his lips.

Bruce thinks that Clark’s erection is beautiful. It stands proudly, flushed dark pink, almost the color of watermelon candy, and sometimes flexing or bobbing as if protesting the lack of attention. Bruce decides to remedy that immediately. Nothing that sightly should ever want for attention. He dedicates his hands to the task, still wanting to explore Clark’s skin with his lips. Pinning the younger man onto his back and straddling him there, Bruce reaches down and takes it into his hand, slowly rubbing up and down as his tongue darts out and catalogues all the spots on his abs where Bruce had seen his shirt cling. Clark’s sighs and moans spur him on, and he slowly makes his way up, over his pecs and tight little nipples, grazing them with his teeth and drawing little yelps from Clark.

Bruce wonders if anyone has ever done this to him before, if anyone has ever made him feel like this before. Then he hears how Clark whispers his name, “ _Bruce_ …” and he knows.

Feeling suddenly possessive, he shoves Clark’s legs apart, puts one knee right in between them. Clark grinds against it almost helplessly, looking for friction, looking for _more_  friction. His face is flushed red and his hands, God those perfect fingers still blackened from work on some spots, they reach for him, reach around him. Bruce gets his wish again because Clark says his name, and his fingers press into his back. He knows they are leaving identical smudges to the ones on his front. He feels relieved now, like the smudges marking him are proof that Clark is his, now.

There isn't an inch of space between them from their joined lips to their grinding hips. Clark’s fingers wind up into his hair as his lips make their way back to Clark’s neck. Bruce thinks he might give up being some pristine rich guy and just never shower again.

Clark’s other hand is making its way down, kneading at the muscled flesh of his butt cheek. Bruce feels his poor cock weep at the idea that Clark might have left a dirty handprint there.

Clark's feet are anchored around Bruce’s legs, helping him press closer, get more friction with each roll of his hips.

Eventually, not really able to stand _just_ touching, _just_ kissing, _just_ exploring, for one more goddamned second, Bruce untangles himself from Clark’s grip long enough to say, “we probably need lube.”

Clark swallows, and swallows again. “There’s… vaseline on the shelf. Um, next to the Gojo. I can--”

“ _Don’t._ Move.”

Clark doesn’t move, but he raises an eyebrow. “I’d be back in a second.”

Bruce sighs. “Fine.”

Clark is gone and back with a small tub of vaseline before Bruce can finish blinking, and Bruce promptly settles himself between his legs again. Clark smiles as Bruce pets him and kisses him, like half a second was still too long to be apart.

Bruce carefully applies the vaseline to his fingers, Clark watching him with wide eyes. “Wait, you aren’t going to--” He flushes. “You’re not just going to--why your fingers?”

Bruce chuckles.“You mean, I’m not just going to fuck you? I suppose I could,” Bruce says thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t hurt you, would it?”

Clark shakes his head from side to side, slowly.

“I’d rather take my time with you in any case,” Bruce says, and his voice is a low rumble.

Clark lets his head fall back onto the pillow and waits. He can’t argue with that logic, can he?

Bruce slips one finger in easily enough, hearing how Clark suddenly sucks in a sharp breath. A second also slips in easily, and Clark’s legs shiver on either side of him in a way that Bruce finds adorably human. The feeling inside of Clark is not what he’s used to, that’s for sure. Females, for one, tend to be wet or slick. Men tend to tense or clench involuntarily and it feels too hot and tight at first as they anticipate something that is too harsh, too much, too fast.

Clark is both warm and tight, but his body isn’t anticipating pain, probably, and that changes the way he reacts. He isn’t anticipating something negative, he’s reveling in the feeling. His mouth falls open and his eyes roll up in his head as Bruce starts to gently curl or thrust his fingers, feeling for a spot he knows will make Clark light up.

He knows he’s found it when a moan rips from Clark’s lips and his pretty, thick cock oozes just a little bit, glistening in the little bit of natural light that is around them. It’s so enticing that Bruce grasps it again, stroking it gently in time with the motion of his fingers, smiling when Clark can’t figure out whether to thrust into Bruce’s hand or press onto his fingers. “Do you want to come like this?” he asks in a murmur.

Clark shakes his head. “N-no… please come back.”

The plea is as heartbreaking as it is strange. Bruce immediately withdraws his fingers and settles himself over Clark again, peppering kisses over his face, teasing his lips with his own. “What’s wrong?” he asks, kissing lightly at Clark’s stubbled cheek, trailing toward his ear where he nips at the lobe.

Clark is quiet for a long time before he asks, “Do you… do you really want all of me?”

The possessive asshole in Bruce wants to nod and then kiss him until he won’t argue, but Bruce understands what he’s asking. The unconditional acceptance Bruce had issued so easily meant that he’d probably accepted more than he was actually ready for. What Clark is really asking is, “how much of my heart should I guard?” Bruce honestly doesn’t have an answer. He should say, “guard all of it. Everyone that’s ever loved me has gotten hurt.” But what he really wants to say is, “none of it. I want you to be mine and love me.” What is most realistic is probably something in between.

He mouths at Clark’s jaw while he thinks, but the only conclusion he can reach is _fuck it._ “Every bit,” he reiterates. Whatever happens now, Bruce would rather be all in.

Clark doesn’t respond after that, but his kiss is desperate, his tongue insistent and limber. Bruce absobs it all and reciprocates with patience and reassurance. He understands why Clark is nervous. His guilty conscience reminds him that he’d been at the very forefront against Superman, had been the reason this beautiful body underneath him had once been lifeless and cold. Overcoming that amount of hatred is impossible for most people.

Bruce isn’t most people, and neither is Clark. Bruce promises with his tongue and with his fingers that they’ve overcome it. He vows with his own scarred body that Clark will never feel that distrust from him again, and he vows with his scarred soul that Clark won’t ever feel like an outsider again.

Maybe that’s why Clark’s dirty appearance had appealed to him so much. Maybe it’s because Clark doesn’t have masks after all--just sides to himself: the intelligent, analytical, clean cut thinker he’d seen in the city when Clark had worked as a reporter, the strong, larger than life hero he’d seen flying around saving people, and the grimy, sweaty farm boy fixing his tractor. Clark wears his dirt with pride because it’s just one side of him. He can trade his muddy shoes and dirty jeans for a tie and a shirt with a collar, and leather dress shoes. He can shave his face and gel his hair, and he’ll show the other lovely side of him, the part that makes Bruce’s mind light up.

Clark’s dirt can be washed away. His can’t. His filth lives in his mind and in his soul, dark, permanent, all-consuming.

He feels desperately unworthy of this, now. How? How can he say he’s accepted all of Clark, wants all of him, wants to do this, when he has no standing with which to take any of it? Who is he to accept Clark when Clark should be the one accepting him?

Clark’s fingers are on his face now. They’re probably leaving smudges there too, but Bruce doesn’t care anymore. He struggles to meet those clear-blue eyes, struggles to make himself strong enough to really look.

What he sees in them makes him shake from his spine to his toes. His eyes, they’re so open. _I forgave you a long time ago,_ they say with their shine. _I won’t push you away,_ they whisper with their hue. The little brown spot in the left one, it says, _I've seen the parts of you that you think are unworthy, and I want you anyway._

Bruce gives in. He gives his acceptance, and he takes Clark’s too, right along with his lips. He takes Clark’s hands, still black with dirt and dried grease from the tractor. He takes Clark’s body too, sinking into him with a gasp and a trembling groan, Clark’s gasps and cries echoing in his ears until they seem to never stop. He doesn't ever want them to, anyway.

When they come, they come together, the sound of his name on Clark’s lips driving him over the edge and into blinding sensation.

For once, that awful, filthy feeling Bruce always carries with him is gone. Bruce’s release leaks out of him and onto the bed and Clark’s release smears between them, but neither makes a move to clean it up. They just fall asleep close together.

At night, Bruce notices immediately once he wakes up that Clark has been awake for a while. He brought clothes from Bruce’s suitcase and threw away the ripped ones. He put the cover on the vaseline and turned on a fan to take the edge off the muggy summer evening. He wiped up their bed and even put a towel over the messy sheets he couldn’t change while Bruce was asleep.

He was also probably working. His fingers are dirty again, and this time so is his face. In the corner of the room sit his work boots, laces untied, and brown with mud.

Bruce pulls himself closer to his lover and smiles.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Cool. Hey thanks for making it this far! feel free to point out anything wonky or weird, this is unbeta-ed and most of it was written well after midnight :') 
> 
> If you like this, I'm working on this cute little teenaged boy drama AU called [ Best Friends ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14906240) that I could really use some motivation and critique on. 
> 
> You guys rock,  
> <3Daisy


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